


Kingdom Come

by Artemis_Dreamer



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post War, Sad Ending, Torture, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: “There is no glory in war, no reward for instigating conflict. There can be no doubt about these truths. Your imprisonment will serve to remind your fellow Cybertronians that peace is the most essential of all values.”---In which a hero falls from grace, and a tyrant falls with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Transformers angst. More chapters to come.
> 
> Heavily inspired by the lyrics of Demi Lovato's "Kingdom Come"

The war was over, and the Autobots had emerged victorious. Megatron had been defeated and imprisoned. The remaining Decepticon forces were in disarray, and more were being captured with every passing orn.

The war was over, and Optimus Prime was a hero.

So why was that hero currently standing in an Iaconian courtroom, surrounded by a council of uneasy bureaucrats who were openly discussing his punishment?

“Your honor, I do not understand your logic.” Optimus repeated for the umpteenth time. “What purpose will my imprisonment serve?”

The presiding Magnus arched an optic ridge. “You still think you’re a hero, do you?” The grizzled mech spat bitterly. “You’re nothing of the kind.”

“Under my leadership, the Autobots defeated the Decepticons and brought peace to Cybertron.” Optimus replied, tone non-confrontational. “I do not claim to be a hero, but surely my actions speak for themselves.”

The Magnus scoffed. “Your actions? You perpetuated millennia of self-interested war for no reason other than pride.”

The Prime bit his glossa. Pride? Yes, there had been pride. Megatron’s pride, his blatant refusal to work towards peace in any form. Peace had been unattainable, so war had been the only alternative. Was the Magnus insinuating that he should have stood aside and allowed the Autobots be slaughtered? That he should have allowed Megatron to rule their world?

“Your actions as a commander were to the detriment of our race.” The grizzled mech continued. “Thousands of Cybertronians fought and died unnecessarily under your command. The council has found you guilty of war crimes of the highest order. Your punishment for those crimes is imprisonment.”

“What purpose will my imprisonment serve?” Optimus repeated the question, powerless in the face of such blatant stupidity from a superior officer.

He had known full well that he would not be the one to rule Cybertron after the war. He had not expected to rule. In fact, he had aided in re-establishing the council of thirteen, aided in instating a new Magnus. He was merely a wartime commander, after all, not a leader.

He was merely a wartime commander, but he was not a criminal.

“Your imprisonment will set an example for the people.” The Magnus replied. “There is no glory in war, no reward for instigating conflict. There can be no doubt about these truths. Your imprisonment will serve to remind your fellow Cybertronians that peace is the most essential of all values.”

Rage flared in the Prime’s spark. An example? He was to spend the rest of his function rusting in a prison cell merely because the council needed an example? His servo clenched into a fist, but he restrained himself from action. He could not defy the ruling of the rightful Magnus.

Unfortunately, a clenched fist was the only display of aggression that the council needed to see. A searing bolt of charge lanced through his frame as his stasis cuffs were electrified. Optimus bellowed with pain, collapsing to his knees.

“I, Ultra Magnus of Cybertron, sentence you, Optimus Prime, to imprisonment for so long as you still shall function.”

The ruling was made.

Another bolt of charge seared through him, this one more powerful than the last. As his systems shut down, his optics going dark, the last thing that Optimus Prime saw was the triumphant smirk on the faceplates of the Magnus.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Improbable? Yes. Impossible? Probably. Still, it suits my needs.

A triumphant smirk. Megatron’s smirk.

Optimus gradually onlined his optics, processer fogged with pain. He was in a cell, of sorts. He was surrounded by cubic force field that was transparent on all sides and offered no privacy whatsoever. There was a small bench at the rear of the enclosure, on which he was currently slumped. It was otherwise bare.

The Prime struggled to his pedes, movements drastically impaired by the active stasis cuffs still locked firmly around his wrists. There was no need for the cuffs to be active while he was inside a cell. His jailers were either irrationally wary, or trying to prove a point.

Probably trying to prove a point. As Optimus forced himself to stand, he discovered how painfully small the enclosure was – his helm quite nearly brushed the ceiling. Looking around, he realized with trepidation that there wasn’t even enough room for him to pace, let alone to lie down and recharge.

This wasn’t a prison cell – this was a cage. A transparent cage that afforded everymech outside a clear view of its unfortunate occupant. The Magnus had been quite accurate in his pronouncement. Optimus Prime wasn’t merely a prisoner – he was a statement.

“So you’re finally online, Prime.” A sickeningly familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. Megatron’s voice.

To the Prime’s horror, he discovered that the voice had originated from a nearly identical cell directly opposite his own. Only two layers of transparent force field and a distance of perhaps ten feet separated him from his worst enemy.

Was this the council’s idea of a joke?

Apparently, he’d said that out loud. The warlord barked with harsh laughter. “Yes. Hilarious, isn’t it? I get to spend the rest of my function staring at your ugly faceplates.”

Optimus stiffened with annoyance. “Likewise,” he retorted. “I was under the impression that my sentence was imprisonment, not torture.”

Megatron growled furiously, the noise not unlike a trapped mechanimal, but did not reply. The Prime shuttered his optics with confusion at such an unusual response. It was unlike Megatron to turn down any opportunity to fight, even if their only available weapons were words.

Optimus took advantage of the unexpected silence to examine the room beyond their cells – a featureless box of mirrored glass, marred only by a pair of massive doors set into the wall to his left.

“Is this-“ Optimus began to ask a question, then abruptly reconsidered. Showing any sign of weakness or confusion in front of Megatron would be a fatal error. Imprisoned or not, the warlord was dangerous.

“An observation room. Yes.” Megatron spat, seemingly reading his processor. “We’re a regular freak show.”

Prime gaped at his enemy. “You mean to tell me that there are mechs on the other side of that glass right now, watching our every move.”

“As much as we can move,” the warlord retorted, gesturing around the confines of his cell with his bound servos. Given his greater size, Megatron was clearly even more uncomfortable than the Prime himself. Pit, he couldn’t even stretch his limbs in that little cage.

Optimus winced at the truth of Megatron’s words. “How long?” He asked, not sure that he wanted to hear the answer. This arrangement was temporary. It had to be.

“Since the end of the war,” came the warlord's bitter reply.

It had been four stellar cycles since the end of the war - four entire stellar cycles. This arrangement was temporary. It had to be.

“Welcome to the Pit, Prime. Get used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've honestly been feeling pretty down lately - kind of hoping that expressing my feelings through fanfic will help a bit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some torture elements.

It was hard “get used to” the Pit when the conditions seemed to worsen with every passing orn.

Prime had managed to get Megatron talking again, and for decaorns, all they had done was talk. Arguing about the past, complaining about the present, and downright bickering about the future. Anything to pass the time, to alleviate the crippling boredom of imprisonment.

Optimus barely noticed as the cycles of conversation slowly eroded the mutual hatred between them. Soon enough, Megatron could look at him without glaring, argue with him without raising his voice, and say his designation without it sounding like a bitter insult. 

Optimus barely noticed as their vicious arguments gave way to rational disagreements and their sarcastic sniping gave way to good-natured banter. 

Optimus barely noticed, but their captors certainly did. Ninety decaorns after the Prime was first imprisoned, he found himself being unceremoniously dragged from his cell.

Rough servos shoved him from the mirrored room and down a short concrete corridor, into what could best be described as a medical laboratory. An unholy hybrid of a medbay and a science lab.

"What are you -" 

"Why are you -"

"Where are you -"

Each of the Prime's many insistent inquiries went unheeded as he was forcibly herded into the laboratory. The door slammed violently behind him and he lurched forward, unstable on his bound pedes.

"You really do talk too much," a cold voice observed. An unfamiliar mech, a scientist, emerged from the adjacent room. "No wonder they want your vocalizer removed."

"Removed?" Optimus choked out the word incredulously, certain that he'd misheard.

"Exactly," the scientist confirmed emotionlessly. "You must be prevented from communicating with Megatron."

There were precautionary measures, and then there was insanity. This was insanity.

At the time of his incarceration, the Prime's weapons systems, comm links, external scanners, and wireless data uplinks had all been disabled. The process had been humiliating but painless, and he knew that it was nothing more than a routine procedure to ensure prison security. 

The forcible surgical removal of his vocalizer, however, would be neither routine nor painless. 

"As a prisoner of the Cybertronian government, it is within my rights to -" Optimus began to speak, but an abrupt and painful shock from his ever present stasis cuffs cut him off.

The scientist regarded him unkindly, brandishing the wireless control mechanism for the cuffs. "You may be a prisoner, but you certainly don't have rights, Optimus Prime."

The Prime opened his mouth to reply, but all that emerged was a pained cry as the scientist yet again electrified the stasis cuffs. "I'm authorized to do anything I want to you. Co-operate, and your vocalizer will be the only thing I remove today."

Optimus bared his dentae in a silent snarl. "It is the right of all -" He didn't have time to so much as finish his sentence before the scientist electrified the cuffs for the third and final time.

Everything went offline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the background characters aren't named, simply because they would have no reason to introduce themselves to a prisoner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of injuries.

Pain. That was the first sensation that the Prime registered as his systems slowly came back online. The pain of fried circuitry and charred plating. 

How many times had they electrocuted him while he was in stasis? 

He was back in his cell, back inside that tiny cage of transparent force fields. His stasis cuffs were still on - in fact, they had been tuned to an even higher setting than before. Now, he doubted that he could so much as move his arms, never mind rising from his uncomfortably slumped position on the bench.

He opened his mouth to vocalize his displeasure, and the pain in his frame was suddenly eclipsed by sheer agony. Agony flaring from a pair of poorly-welded gashes across his neck cables.

An internal diagnostic scan revealed what he already knew - his vocalizer had been removed. Badly removed, his scanners corrected. The mech who had performed the surgery had clearly done so with the intent of inflicting as much pain and suffering as possible.

Never mind being unable to vocalize - he would likely be unable to move his helm and neck without pain for the rest of his function.

A glance into Megatron's adjacent cell revealed that the warlord was not present. Worry flared through the Prime's spark. 

Megatron was his worst enemy, regardless of the twisted camaraderie which they had formed during their imprisonment together. He had no reason to worry about the warlord. He shouldn't have cared what happened to that cruel, violent, foul-tempered tyrant.

Only, he did worry, and he did care. The council would keep Optimus imprisoned until his function ended of "natural" causes. He was their trophy, after all. He was here to serve as an example to all Cybertronians. They wouldn't deactivate him.

They had no such compunctions against deactivating Megatron.

Despite himself, Optimus could feel dread churning in the pit of his tanks. It was frighteningly likely that the guards had taken Megatron to be executed. It was frighteningly likely that he was going to spend the rest of his function alone.

Those fears were thankfully proven wrong only a few short cycles later, when a handful of guards deposited Megatron back into the adjacent cell. As Optimus examined the warlord's battered frame, he realized that "thankfully" wasn't the correct word.

Optimus may have endured electrocution and forced surgery, but Megatron looked like he'd been slagging tortured. There were two welds across his neck cables that matched Prime's own, but there were also dozens of other fresh welds scarring his forearms and inner thighs. Evenly spaced, straight welds - the evidence of methodically inflicted wounds. The evidence of torture.

It was nearly eleven orns before Megatron finally awoke, eleven orns during which the Prime didn't recharge once. He was unable to tear his optics away from the warlord, from the damage to the warlord's frame. He was unable to quell his irrational fear of the other's deactivation.

Nomech deserved to be tortured. Nomech deserved to be tortured and then left in a cell to slowly deactivate from their injuries. Not even him. 

When Megatron's crimson optics finally onlined, Optimus exvented with relief. He watched the warlord's faceplates contort with pain as he attempted to speak, watched the warlord struggle to move as he attempted to stand.

Megatron made more progress against the upgraded stasis cuffs than Prime himself had, but was ultimately unable to rise. At last, he collapsed back onto the bench with exhaustion, glaring resentfully at the Prime - at the Prime's decided lack of injuries.

Megatron's left optic was flickering erratically, Optimus noted. Had the scientists damaged it? He narrowed his focus, zooming in his own optics to check for any readily apparent damage. 

As he zoomed in, he began to notice a pattern in the flickering, a strangely familiar pattern. A pattern that Orion Pax had known by spark, that Megatronus had taught to him in the relative privacy of the archives. The warlord was transmitting in Kaonian Miner's Code. 

:I'll deactivate them.: Megatron transmitted. :I'll deactivate them all. Try and stop me, Prime, and I'll deactivate you too.:

Optimus couldn't help the relieved expression that flickered across his faceplates. Their jailers had mutilated them in a desperate attempt to end their communications, to isolate them until they both glitched from sheer isolation and loneliness.

Their jailers had failed.

:Stop you?: Optimus transmitted incredulously. :I intend to help you.:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're both starting to break down, and their health only gets worse from here.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time marches on.

:How long?: Megatron transmitted. He already knew.

It had become a sick sort of game that they played. A game that kept them teetering on the brink of sanity, never quite allowing them to fall.

:I’m afraid I’ve stopped keeping track.: Optimus replied. A blatant lie, but it was all part of the game. 

He wished that he had stopped, but he couldn't bring himself to turn off his chronometer. Measuring the steady passage of time was his only connection to the outside world, to the reality that existed beyond the glass walls of their observation room.

:How long?: Megatron transmitted again, more insistently now. They had played this game a thousand times, but the warlord had never been a patient mech.

:Sixty-seven vorns.: Optimus admitted. This time, he allowed his resolve to crack quickly - sometimes he'd withhold the answer for far longer, a test of the warlord’s patience, but today it was clear that neither of them were in the mood for such foolishness.

Sixty-seven vorns spent in cells too small to allow for even the most basic of movement. Sixty-seven vorns of torture and interrogation at the seemingly arbitrary whims of their jailers. Sixty-seven vorns spent in isolation, unable to contact the outside world.

:How long?: Megatron repeated for a third time, demanding precision. Abstract numbers were of no use to either of them.

Optimus could barely bring himself to transmit the data. To transmit it would be to acknowledge it as reality. A reality that neither mech truly wanted to face.

:Sixty-seven vorns, nineteen stellar cycles, one-hundred-and-thirty-two orns, nine cycles and forty-five kliks.:

Forty-six, the chronometer corrected. 

:Primus.: Megatron's transmission was hollow, his expression a mixture of shock and resignation. To have their imprisonment broken down into such precise measurements never ceased to be unsettling.

:Primus won't help us now.: Optimus transmitted humorlessly. 

Sixty-seven vorns was only a fraction of their sentence - they were to spend the remainder of the functions in prison. Functions which could still drag on for dozens of millennia to come, for hundreds upon hundreds of vorns. 

After all, they were warbuilds. It was not uncommon for a warbuild to reach a centennial - to spend one hundred millennia online. 

Neither mech would admit how often they had longed for their functions to end prematurely, how often they had given in to thoughts of weakness and despair. Honestly, given the minimal regard the jailers possessed for their wellbeing, a premature deactivation was hardly an unreasonable expectation. 

But they were warbuilds. Designed to endure and to survive in even the most torturous and punishing of conditions - conditions far worse than systematic torture, minimal fueling, and the abject isolation of a prison cell. 

Primus wouldn't help them now. No one would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My grasp of Cybertronian time measurements might be a bit off, but I'm trying my best to keep the numbers consistent.
> 
> Also, I'm considering changing the title to "Great Expectations" - because a lot of you are going to be let down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some psychological torture elements.

Repetition and stagnation were the simple realities of imprisonment. The actions of their jailers and the schedules of their guards had become predictable, oftentimes down to the very klik. 

Their functions had fallen into a sick sort of routine.

Every third decaorn, the two mechs would be fuelled through drip transfusion. The fuelling that they received was minimal, barely enough to keep them online. On a good orn, their tanks would be filled to one-quarter capacity. On a bad orn, they'd be lucky if their tanks were filled past redline. 

Every second decaorn, the two mechs would be interrogated - dragged from their cells to have as much information as possible painfully extracted from their processors. The questions were always the same, the answers were always inadequate, and the guards were never patient.

In violation of Cybertronian ethics, the two mechs were also subjected to torture. Unlike the fuelling and interrogation, however, such abuse never followed a particular schedule. As Megatron had observed, with a thoroughly humourless smirk on his tired faceplates, it seemed that they were tortured whenever their jailers grew particularly bored. 

In all honesty, the physical abuse was largely manageable. As warbuilds, their frames could withstand incredible amounts of pain. Their processors, however, were not nearly so resilient. As such, it was the interrogations that were truly torturous. 

Earlier that orn, Megatron had been taken from his cell for more so-called "routine questioning", and Optimus found himself dwelling yet again on the anxiety that he felt for the other mech's wellbeing. Misplaced anxiety, but anxiety nonetheless.

As they lacked vocalizers with which to communicate, the interrogations were performed through a cortical psychic patch - in essence, the information was forcibly and invasively removed from their processors. 

The patches were invariably sloppy and rushed, applied through brute force hacking by sadistic medics. The necessary precautions were never taken, but then again, why would they be taken? The government merely needed their prisoners online, not intact.

The guards unceremoniously flung Megatron back into his cell only a few short cycles later. The warlord was clearly disoriented, and it took several long breems for his optics to regain focus.

:Has anything gone missing?: Optimus transmitted, tone relieved. Sometimes the warlord would be lost in a fugue state for cycles, unfocused, incoherent, and dangerously overheated. Today, it seemed that he had been comparatively fortunate.

Had anything gone missing? To be frank, the Prime already knew the answer. Megatron's disgruntled reply was merely a token act of confirmation.

:Why bother asking, Prime?: The warlord transmitted, shoulders slumped with abject exhaustion. :Are you truly naive enough to believe that those sadistic fraggers could spontaneously grow a conscience?:

A cortical psychic patch, when poorly implemented, could cause serious processor damage. Could, and often did. So far, for better or for worse, the damage done to their processors had manifested primarily in the form of lost data. Memory data.

:I've lost everything between the Polyhexian Energon Refinery Coup and the Stand at the Gates of Kaon.: The warlord transmitted, his tone frustrated. 

That was a span of nearly seven entire vorns, and Optimus noted with concern that every loss of data was considerably greater than the last. He exvented heavily, trying to quell the pity that flared in his spark. Megatron neither deserved nor desired sympathy - only the restoration of his processor. 

:Would you care to hear a story?: Optimus transmitted wryly, a sad little smile on his lipplates.

:Unbiased, if at all possible: Megatron sneered in response, rolling his optics. He still refused to trust the words of an Autobot, even the words of an Autobot alongside whom he had been unjustly imprisoned for seventy-two vorns.

Optimus promptly began a long series of transmissions - memories, as unbiased as he could possibly manage, of the events of those missing vorns. He knew that the warlord would doubt every single word of it, but there was no reason to be dishonest. 

He relayed memories of the battles that their factions had fought, victories and losses on both sides that had ultimately resulted in yet another stalemate. He relayed memories of the intel that the Autobots had gathered about the Decepticons high command, any observations that might help to contextualize the decisions that had been made.

He also relayed what memories he had of troop distribution, of key deactivations, and of the general state of faction morale.

He did all of this for Megatron without hesitation, just as the warlord so often did for him. 

Often. So often as to have become routine.

Their miserable, imprisoned functions had become routine. So much so, that it was nearly possible for their increasingly damaged processors to parse their situation as normal. With each data packet lost, with each memory file deleted, with each information relay reformatted, their perception of the situation edged closer and closer to normalcy.

Orn after orn. Vorn after vorn. Closer and closer.

Neither mech would remember the exact orn, but neither would deny that the orn had come to pass. The orn when this sick routine of under-fuelling, interrogation, and torture became normal.

The most normal thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be a few days before I have a chance to post the next chapter - please bear with me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No salvation.

The end began with the wailing of a siren. A faint siren, the sound originating from many floors above their cells. After all, where else did one imprison the planet's most dangerous mechs than in the nethermost depths of Trypticon prison, so very near to the Pit itself?

The siren sounded continuously for a cycle, sounded intermittently for perhaps half a cycle longer, and then stopped entirely. 

Then came the earthquake - or at very least it felt like one. The ground beneath their pedes trembled. Panels of glass cracked on the walls, the air itself shuddering violently in the otherwise barren space. The overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. Now, their optics were the only illumination in the darkness.

:The prison is without power, yet our cells are still online.: Optimus transmitted with confusion.

:They're on backup generators - self-sustaining ones.: Megatron replied bitterly. The Prime didn’t doubt the warlord’s pronouncement for even a nanoklik. He of all mechs ought to understand the mentality of their jailers. :These cells will stay online until the end of time itself.:

Then, there was nothing. Orn after orn of nothing. The two mechs sat in silence, their frames and their sanity being slowly consumed by the encroaching darkness.

Immobile in their cells, bound in stasis cuffs, their frames used little fuel - but they still used fuel. Fuel that was required to sustain their basic life functions. Fuel that was no longer being provided to them.

Gradually their tanks sank into redline, fuel levels dropping below five percent. Dropping lower, lower, and lower still. 

:We're going to deactivate down here.: Optimus didn't want to admit the inevitable reality, but it was reality nonetheless. Admitting it seemed akin to giving up - but there was nothing left to give up on.

By now, they were subsisting on their last dregs of energon, struggling to remain online. Even the simple act of transmission between them had become difficult.

:You had feelings for me, once.: Optimus transmitted. :In the days when I was Orion Pax.: What was there left to lose? Better to deactivate with a peaceful processor than with a thousand unanswered questions.

:I still do.: Megatron replied bluntly.

:When I said 'feelings', I wasn't referring to hatred.: Optimus transmitted, tone reprimanding. The Prime had no idea what sort of response he'd been expecting, but this wasn’t it. By this point he was by far too exhausted to play any of the warlord's twisted games.

Megatron was running out of energon more quickly than the Prime, his frame larger and less efficient. It was clear that he was barely moments from slipping into stasis.

:When you became Prime, I was sparkbroken.: Megatron began. :I had powerful feelings for Orion, and suddenly, Orion was gone.:

:I was truly selfish - I began the war out of rage, out of loss. I wanted to destroy the mech who had taken Orion's place. As we fought, I began to realize that Orion wasn't truly gone. I still had those feelings, only now, they were for a Prime rather than for an archivist.:

:I realized my mistake, I tried to stop the war. I knew that there was still hope, that I could become the Protector to your Prime. We were on the brink of peace when Unicron began to influence me - Unicron insisted that the war must continue at all costs. By the time I was free of him, it was too late. You were lost to me.:

Optimus shuddered, overwhelmed by the warlord's words. In their final moments together, Megatron's reservations had fallen away, and all that remained was painful sincerity. His spark throbbed with an emotion that he didn't dare to name.

Megatron's optics were nearly dark. He had used too much energon to make that final speech. Optimus knew that they had only seconds left together, that the time for hesitation was over. He gave that emotion a name.

:I love you, my Protector.: It was his final transmission. 

:As I love you, my Prime.: The warlord replied, a hint of a smile on his scarred lipplates.

Megatron's optics offlined for a final time, the mech slipping gently into a long-overdue stasis. Deactivation would soon follow.

Optimus forced himself to keep his optics open, to take in every battered inch of the warlord's massive frame. Megatron would be the last sight that he ever saw. 

At last, every inch of the other’s frame committed painstakingly to memory, the Prime finally allowed himself to surrender to the needs of his frame. Optics offlining for a final time, he joined the warlord in stasis.

Deactivation would soon follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When life has been reduced to endless suffering, happiness can be found in the sweet embrace of death.
> 
> I have no excuses, only regret.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Heathens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9704198) by [PepsiGo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepsiGo/pseuds/PepsiGo)




End file.
